


Warm Hugs and Soft Cowboys

by Circadiana



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Angsty Cowboys, Big Brother Arthur, Brotherly John & Arthur, Cuddles, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Nightmares, Please protect my mans, Protective Arthur Morgan, Soft cowboys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-24
Updated: 2019-01-24
Packaged: 2019-10-15 15:43:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,030
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17531570
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Circadiana/pseuds/Circadiana
Summary: Alright, so lately I'm SUPER obsessed with RDR2 and I just couldn't get soft Arthur and John out of my head... hopefully I'll have more one-shot ideas for RDR2 but for now this is it. I will update with stories whenever possible. For now, enjoy this small bit :)orA (hopefully) collection of one-shots for RDR2





	Warm Hugs and Soft Cowboys

     A warm summer breeze whistled through the flaps in the tent of Arthur Morgan, illuminating the dark interior with warm, yellow light, which flowed from a lantern that hung on the post outside of his canvas enclosure. The outlaw was snoring softly, and his nightclothes rippled slightly in the draft. While the wind carried faint smells of stew and whiskey from the day, it also carried the quiet sounds of rustling and a person shifting from foot to foot. As these noises reached him, Arthur’s eyes snapped open. The man, who was in his early twenties, had always been a light sleeper; this fact had frankly been a necessity all his life, from his early childhood, when he’d had to cower in his bed, waiting for his father to arrive at home, drunk and enraged, to being a young teen on the streets before he’d met his surrogate fathers, always having to sleep with one eye open. Even now, even though surrounded by his friends and family in the Van Der Linde gang, he was seemingly always subconsciously preparing for a theft, a raid, or an assassination.

     Arthur remained still, although his mind was racing. Quickly, his eyes flicked to the entrance, and he cursed himself for pinning it closed before he went to sleep; he couldn’t see outside. He shifted his gaze over to his handgun, which was resting on the small table in his tent next to a greasy cloth, from when he’d been cleaning it that evening. After a few more moments of consideration, the cowboy slipped off his elevated bedroll and deftly grabbed the Cattleman Revolver, loading and cocking it as silently as possible. Scents of gunpowder and gun oil wafted off it, and he wrinkled his nose. Silently, he stalked to the tent entrance and ripped open the flap, pointing the weapon between the eyes of the intruder.

     Arthur Morgan was certainly an intimidating figure, with chiseled muscles, broad shoulders, and a hard, bearded face. He constantly wore a scowl, and in his current outfit, which consisted merely of a pair of soft pants (they were currently camping in quite a warm area, it was too hot to wear a shirt to sleep), his powerful muscles were on display to whoever thought that he was someone they could mess with. The intruder gave a squeal of surprise and fell on his rump. He looked up at the large young man with wide, fearful eyes, and he choked on a muffled sob. His long, greasy hair fell in front of his eyes as he moved, and the man threatening him faltered. Arthur flinched and lowered his gun as he recognized the frightened face of the 11-year-old before him. He tossed his firearm back onto the table and hissed, “What’n the hell you doin’, John?” The outlaw crouched before the child and suddenly saw that John’s face, lit by the lantern, was blotchy and red, and that his eyes were glassy with unshed tears. The boy was breathing fast, clearly on the edge of panic, and Arthur’s face softened. His clear green eyes went from threatening to caring, and he crouched, resting his calloused hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Wha’s wrong, boy?”

     John leaned into the touch. He pressed his teary face into his knees and mumbled, “Had a nightmare. Th-they was hang-“ he paused, as if reluctant to say the word. “H-hangin’ me again.” He shuddered as he spoke of the night almost an entire year ago when the then-ten-year-old had been caught and sentenced to death by hanging for multiple accounts of petty theft. He’d been living on the streets and stealing to survive. The Van Der Linde gang had arrived just as the boy was about to swing, and saved his life. Later on, they decided to take the kid under their wings, not unlike how they’d taken in Arthur.

     Since then, Arthur and John had grown quite close; the gruff outlaw enjoyed having the spritely kid around, and he’d grown to think of John almost as a little brother. Arthur gave a long sigh and muttered, “Kid…” He grabbed the teary-eyed boy and drew him closer until John was cradled against his chest. John sniffled and leaned into his adoptive brother’s warmth.

     Certainly, in this life and this world, it was easy to forget how young you were. Already, Arthur was an outlaw, a gunslinger, and a murder, when normal men his age were reckless fools with no responsibility. John was so young and tender, but his eyes had long been hardened to the horrors of real life. Neither of the boys had been afforded any luxuries in their youth, and it showed. It really did.

     “I miss my Ma,” Rasped the boy. His face was pressed into Arthur’s chest, which muffled the words slightly, but the cowboy heard them just fine.

     “I miss my Ma too. Dutch ‘n Hosea did mighty fine raisin’ me, but… still miss ‘er,” admitted the normally emotionless Arthur. He never liked to show any feelings other than anger and spite, as he had some sort of deep-rooted belief that emotions equated to weakness.

     Slowly, and over time, as Arthur murmured quiet stories of his adventures with Hosea and Dutch and Miss Grimshaw and Bessie, John calmed. His tears stopped falling and his mind drifted away from the traumatic events his mind had made him relive. It was late, and the boy’s eyes were drooping, so Arthur carefully got to his feet, still holding the child. He whispered something about getting to sleep and started towards the tent John occupied. As he began to move, a whimper of protest from John froze him in his tracks. “I… guess you could sleep with me…” He drawled uncertainly.

     Turning around and heading back to his residence, he settled himself onto his cot, this time with a companion. Arthur closed his eyes as John, in his half-asleep stupor, curled into the older man’s chest. The outlaw let out a sigh and let his mind go blank; he was only half aware as he wrapped a protective arm around his little brother and thought, _you sure play me like a fiddle, kid..._

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much for reading, I hope you enjoy! If you have any ideas for future works, please put them down below. I LOVE whump and hurt/comfort and fluff, but no smut. I'm also iffy about certain pairings. Additionally, while I know the outcome of the game, I'm only about halfway through chapter three, so nothing to do with anything farther than that, please :)


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